The Birth of a Hunter
by kellyofsmeg
Summary: It's just a few weeks after his wife died, and John is looking for answers with a mysterious hunter called H. It's tearing John apart to be away from his boys, and he calls The Roadhouse to check in on them. Wee!Dean and Guilt-ridden!Papa Winchester phone convo. Also Bill and Ellen Harvelle. Angst!


**The Birth of a Hunter**

**by kellyofsmeg**

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters.

_..._

_November 21, 1983_

_Outside Mason City, Iowa_

H pulled up to the curb of the slick dark street and parked his modified black '66 GMC pickup. He turned his grizzled and scarred face towards the man in his passenger seat and growled, "You really gotta do this?"

"Yes," John Winchester responded, reaching for the door handle. "It won't take long. I promise."

The seasoned hunter grunted, taking a swig from his silver flask. "Fine. But if you're not back in five minutes, Winchester, I'm leaving without you."

"Fair enough," said John, opening his door and making the nearly four foot jump down from the borderline-monster truck. He pulled the collar of his jacket up against the lashing wind and rain, yanking his leather jacket tight around him.

John went around the side of the car, crossing in front of the blinding headlights of the beast H drove, trusting him not to floor it just to give him a scare; he really didn't know his traveling companion all too well—didn't even know his real name, or to what extent he could be trusted. All he knew was that H had saved his life in Eureka, and that his wife had also been killed. H claimed it had been a demon that did it. It was ridiculous—_insane._ Most of the hunters he'd met so far had been miserable, nomadic, borderline-alcoholic loners with just a touch of the crazy, and H was no different. The only justification John could give for his actions and the company he'd been keeping these past few weeks was a temporary insanity of his own.

H was undoubtedly a shady character, bitter and terrifying. He'd let Mary's Uncle Jacob, bleeding out from a hellhound attack, drown in the back seat of his station wagon after allowing the car to roll into a quarry. And last night, he'd made John a kill a man—well, a shapeshifter who looked like a man. He had put the final silver bullet in 'Ichi's' head, and Dean had come out just in time to see it. He still didn't know what to say to his four-year-old after the incident—"Don't worry, son. That ordinary looking man whose brains you saw me blow out last night—he was actually a monster." Even he didn't believe it.

H said he tracked down and killed monsters for a living. Only it didn't pay; he just liked doing it. In John's opinion, if H wanted to find a real monster, he need not look further than a mirror.

John hated who he was becoming under H's influence, the things he'd done... He wasn't a hunter. He was a grieving husband and a scared father. He wanted nothing more than to grab his sons and get as far away from the umbrageous stranger as he could. But H said he knew a way he could talk to Mary again from beyond the grave, and John was just desperate enough to see his wife again that he was letting himself believe him. After all, H could have easily left him to die in that cemetery, too. Maybe he really did want to help him.

In the short jaunt between the truck and the pay phone, John got completely soaked; the grimy, claustrophobic confines of the phone booth was a haven from the raging storm outside. John's sodden hair dripped a steady beat of collected raindrops onto the floor as he lowered his head and rooted around in his pockets. He located a handful of change and deposited them all into the coin slot, picked up the receiver and held it between his ear and shoulder. He used one hand to hold a business card, and the other to dial the number on it, blinking rainwater out of his eyes so he could make out the digits.

The phone picked up after four agonizing rings. "Hello? Harvelle's Roadhouse. What can I do for you?"

"Ellen, it's John. How are my boys doing?" he said in a rush. "Are they already in bed? Were you able to get them to eat? Did they—"

"John, relax. The boys are fine," said Ellen, calmly and reassuringly. "Dean's getting ready for bed right now and Sammy just fell asleep."

"How was he?" said John, clinging to the phone. "Did he cry much?"

"He's been crying pretty much since you left," John sensed Ellen's politely-concealed irritation and felt guilty; he knew babysitting a relentlessly sobbing infant wasn't exactly most people's idea of fun. "But Dean's made up for him. Hasn't said a single word since he got here. He's just stayed glued to his brother's side—he's the only one whose been able to calm Sammy down. And I wasn't able to make Dean eat much of anything at dinner. He just kept pushing his food around and staring out the window."

John closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool metal of the phone box. He'd had his doubts about leaving his inconsolable six-month old and the mute shadow of his four-year-old with people who were only slightly less strangers to him than H was.

Ellen's report was exactly what he'd been afraid of; the boys were having enough trouble coping with losing their mother a mere three weeks ago without him taking off, too. It was the first whole night he'd be spending away from his sons since the fire, and he felt it like a hook in his gut. He knew he had made a mistake by coming. He'd been selfish and stupid to believe there was any way he could see Mary again. He knew his place was with his boys, and he'd felt his heartache grow with every mile he put between them. It was his job to comfort Sam and Dean now. To protect them. What the hell was he doing with this grim stranger in the middle of nowhere? He was already weighing his chances of convincing H to drive him at least to the state border. He'd hitchhike to Elgin from there if he had to.

"I'm sorry, Ellen...I made a mistake. I shouldn't have left them. I'll start heading back right n—"

"Don't be ridiculous, John, " Ellen snapped, putting on her best no-nonsense voice. "I can handle the boys. Dean's been _too_ well-behaved, if anything. He's been a huge help with Sam. Dean helped me give Sammy his night time bottle and he was so worn out he conked right out, just like you said he would." There was a pause, and Ellen's voice suddenly became hurried. "Listen, John, I have to go—I've got my niece Pam downstairs looking after the bar...if it gets any louder down there—"

"Wait, Ellen before you go could you please put Dean—"

"One second, John," Ellen's voice grew faint and he heard scratchy sounds of the phone against her shirt as Ellen conversed with someone else. It sounded like Bill. She picked up the phone again. "I'm sorry, John. I have to go. Oh, here—talk to Bill." the line became muffled again. "_Bill! Talk to John."_

"Hello, John," said Bill Harvelle, taking the phone from his wife. "How's the hunt going?"

"We're still on the road," John responded, casting an uneasy glance over at the pickup truck to make sure it was still there. "And I've gotta admit, it's not easy being away from my boys."

"I get that. They're great kids," said Bill, "It's good that it's hard for you to leave them. It's when it becomes easy that you should really worry."

"I just have to find out what happened to Mary," said John. "Then it'll be over and done and I can get out."

"No, John. Then you're going to want revenge," said Bill. He could hear the sound of him opening a beer bottle. "And once you kill whatever got Mary, you'll be onto something else. This life has a way of sucking you in. A hunter never quits and they never back down. They're in it till the job kills them. Believe me, I've been to enough funerals to know that much."

"But I'm not a hunter," John argued.

"You can keep telling yourself that, John, but you're already one of us. I heard about that shapeshifter you took down last night. Nice job, by the way!"

"That was one time. H made me—"

"H didn't make you do anything, my friend. He could have easily taken the shot himself if you hadn't. That was all you. Just...make sure this is the life you really want for you and your kids before you get in_ too_ deep."

"Thanks, Bill," said John. He swallowed hard. "But I think I already am."

"In that case, let me take you out on a few hunts. I'll teach you everything I know so you can keep those kids of yours safe."

"Thanks, Bill. I'd...I'd like that," said John sincerely. "And thanks for watching the boys, too. I owe you one."

"No, you don't," said Bill. "You'll find out pretty quickly that us hunters have a way of looking out for each other."

John could hear H revving the engine and knew he was running short on time. "Hey, Bill, I have to go in a minute. D'you think you could put Dean on the phone, if he's still awake?"

"Sure, but—"

"I know he's not talking," said John hurriedly. "I just...I want to say goodnight to him."

There was a pause on the other end. "Okay. I'll get him. Just—wait a second." John heard the clatter of the phone being set down on a hard surface. A moment later, he heard the sound of soft, familiar breathing on the other end of the line.

"Hey, Dean," John said. It did his heart good to hear Dean, even if was just him exhaling. H revved his engine again and John raised his hand, taking his chances in asking the hunter for one more minute, knowing full well he could end up spending the night in this box. "I just wanted to make sure you and Sammy are okay." As predicted, Dean made no response. What was going through his head? He never did get a chance to explain what happened with the shapeshifter... "Dean? Is everything alright?" Desperate to hear Dean's voice, he tried to lighten the mood by saying, "Nodding doesn't work over the phone, son."

"When are you coming back, Daddy?" Dean's soft voice, raspy from disuse made John's breath catch in his throat.

John blinked hard, running a now trembling hand down his face. He wanted to tell Dean how good it was to hear his voice again, but he was afraid that drawing attention to it would make the boy clam up again. "I'll be back as soon as I can, kiddo. My new friend, he's helping me find some answers."

"...about what happened to Mommy?" Dean's voice was barely a whisper.

"Yes," said John thickly, as his throat constricted painfully. He was going to say more, but didn't trust his own voice.

"And then can we go home, Daddy?"

He was sure now that Dean was trying to kill him when he felt his heart clench and spasm. Dean didn't seem to understand yet that they'd never be going back to Lawrence, that they'd never have a true home again. Not without Mary.

"No, Dean," he said heavily, still fighting for composure. "We've got a few more stops along the road."

"Oh," said Dean softly, and John got the impression that the boy was finally beginning to understand that they'd left their lives in Lawrence behind them—for good.

"And until I get back, I want you to keep being a good boy for Ellen and Bill, okay? Do everything they tell you just like you do for me. And look out for Sammy; I know he's been real sad."

"Uh-huh. He has," Dean agreed, fretfully. John noticed a worrying hitch in Dean's voice, heard his shuddering breaths. H blared his horn. John ignored him.

"You okay, buddy?" John asked with concern. He could hear Dean practically hyperventilating as he fought crying out. John's inquiry sent his young son over the edge. The boy began to cry softly, ashamedly, still trying his best to restrain the tears he'd been holding back since his mother died. But the poor little boy could only be strong for so long.

"I'm s-s-sorry, Daddy!"

"For what?" said John. He meant to sound caring and sympathetic, and was painfully aware that it had come out more sharp and accusing. He knew this was a breakthrough for Dean, finally expressing his grief. He softened his voice. "What's wrong? What are you sorry for, Dean?"

"I'm s-sorry f-for," Dean sniffled, secretly glad that the Harvelle's were downstairs and couldn't hear him sobbing like a little girl. "f—for crying."

John closed his eyes, shockwaves of guilt coursing through him over what he now realized he'd inadvertently done to his son. He'd allowed him to slip into obscurity, assumed that Dean hadn't cried over his mother yet because he was still in shock, still trying to process what death even _was; _John had never had reason yet to explain the abstract concept to him until it happened to his mother. He had tried to explain it as delicately as he could. John had never believed in heaven or hell, but for Dean's sake, he had told him his mother was in a better, happier place, where there was no more pain, or sadness, or darkness—which he reasoned was what nonexistence must be like, so he wasn't necessarily lying. He just couldn't tell his son there was nothing after death. It was hard to gauge his comprehension when Dean would just stare at him blankly, not saying a word. Did Dean understand death meant that his mother was gone, and she was never coming back? He honestly didn't know.

John had found he was unable to talk about his wife to any great extent yet, or to allow himself to openly grieve in front of his sons. He had to be strong—or at least appear to be, for their sakes. He was all Sammy and Dean had now, and he couldn't let them see him falling apart. They had to have absolute faith in him. For now, that meant no tears; and Dean had followed his cue. He was lost, scared and confused—and ever since the accident he'd found assurance and security in following his father's lead. It seemed Dean had also inherited John's unfortunate tendency of internalizing his emotions until they could no longer be restrained.

"Don't apologize, Dean," John said, trying to sound gentle despite the fury he was feeling towards himself. "It's me who should be saying sorry. Sammy's not the only one who's allowed to cry. You just let it all out, son. You'll feel better. I promise."

His father's permission was all Dean needed to allow the floodgates to open, and everything the little boy had been holding back came spilling out. John wished he could be with Dean right now, to hold him tight, brush away his tears and tell him everything was going to be okay, even if he himself didn't believe it. But there were over three hindered miles between them, so all he could do was stay on the line and wait patiently, murmuring soft reassurances every now and then while he let Dean have his turn to cry. To hell with H. If he left without him, so be it. He'd find his own way to that pastor in Blue Earth; Dean needed him.

Moments like this made John question his priorities, which was disconcerting because he'd always been so absolute in the decisions he made. He was seriously contemplating whether or not to call off the whole trip when Dean calmed down enough to choke out, "I m-miss you, Daddy."

John could hear Mary's voice in his head, chastising him for not being the first to offer sentiments, but such things had never been his strong suit. He was now the one furiously rubbing at his eyes. He did his best to contain the emotion in his voice. "I miss you, too. And I love you, kiddo. So much. I'll see you real soon. I could come right now if you want me to."

"No!" said Dean with surprising firmness for his age, his response catching John off-guard. "You've gotta go. For Mommy. I'll take care of Sammy."

John was stunned speechless by the selflessness and maturity his son displayed, and how he already seemed to be grasping a sense of the world they had been thrust into. And Dean took responsibility for his little brother when he wasn't able to. He had Dean's blessing to do what he knew he had to to find out the truth, to leave him and Sammy behind. If only that made it easier...

H was clearly growing impatient. He honked three times in a row—three warnings.

"Listen, buddy, I have to go now," said John reluctantly; angst was a strange sensation to him, and the last thing he wanted to do was to have to hang up that phone. It was nearly unbearable being away from his boys, and in the past few minutes the phone cord had become a lifeline for him, especially when he wasn't certain that he was doing the right thing. "Goodnight, kiddo. I'll call again tomorrow. Give Sammy a big hug for me when he wakes up, okay, pal?"

"Okay," Dean allowed himself one last sniffle, preparing to slip back into his stoic silence. "'Night, Daddy. Be careful."

"I will," John said, his voice breaking. It took all his willpower to hang up that phone, and, ignoring the change that dropped into the return, stumbled out of the pay phone box. The rain had been a nuisance before, but now he was glad for it. It made him recall the lyrics to that song by The Temptations that Mary had loved so much, the one about being grateful for the rain to hide the fact the dude was crying. Mary had always teased that he was just like the guy in the song. And that recollection only made him feel worse.

H waited until John had nearly reached the passenger door to drive forward, making John have to run to catch up with him. The car was still in motion when John managed to get a foothold on the running board and heave himself up, flinging open the door and pulling himself into the cab. He slammed the door harder than necessary, glaring at the driver.

"I hope that call wasn't collect," H chuckled darkly. "I came this close to leaving your ass back there."

John would have apologized for the call taking longer than he thought it would, if he had actually been sorry. "Well, thanks for waiting, I guess."

"It's raining pretty hard out there," said H nastily, catching sight of John's bloodshot eyes. "Not having second thoughts, are you, Winchester?"

"Just drive," said John coldly. "Blue Earth."

"I knew you couldn't turn away," H leered, showing all of his disintegrating teeth. "Hunting, man. Here, an object lesson," he offered John his flask, and he accepted, feeling it was just what he needed right then. He took a swig. The stuff tasted like gasoline, burned all the way down and made his eyes water.

"Good, isn't it?" said H, tucking the flask back into his Beretta jacket. "That's how hunting makes you feel. Once you've had a taste of it, you just feel this rush—like fire through your veins. You get bloodthirsty, and you just have to kill every ghost, ghoul, and beast you come across. Every hunter gets into the business for a reason, and then they always find another reason to stay."

John remained silent, staring out the window with deadened eyes. He didn't give H the satisfaction of telling him he was right; because John realized now that he was fast becoming a hunter, whether he liked it or not, and there was no turning back now. Not after the evil things he'd found out really existed out there in the dark. How could he ignore that now, and go back to a domesticated life of ignorant bliss, under the false security that nothing could hurt his family again? No. He couldn't pretend that was even a possibility.

His wife's death had opened his eyes, had led him on this path to becoming a hunter. And he'd found his reason to stay: to take out the son of a bitch that killed Mary, so that it would never have a chance to take his boys from him, too. Until he knew who or what that thing was in Sammy's nursery, everything was a threat. And he'd kill every evil thing he met along the way to keep other families from having go through the same hell his had endured. Because that's what hunters do.

But there was one thing Bill and H had both been wrong about: he knew that when he'd had his revenge, he'd be out of the game. There was an end in sight for him, and he'd do whatever it took to cross that finish line, and hopefully be able to walk away from it in one piece.

What truly troubled him was that the road he was on now was no place for his sons. How could he possibly be two such irreconcilable things at once? A father, _and _a hunter? Could it even be done?

After a few more hours of driving, they stopped at a gas station to refuel. H went inside to pay for the gas and provisions with a stolen credit card. By the light of the overhead pumping station, John thought back to his conversation with Dean and finished writing an entry in his journal he had started that morning:

_Here's what I wish I could say to Dean—your brother's too young to understand this, but you're beginning to. And that scares me. Since your mother died, I've seen unspeakable things, and now you've seen them and that's my fault. I feel the darkness of the road I'm traveling on now. It's not a place for you. One day you'll see—I had to leave you today...but when I'm done, I promise you: the day will come when I'll never have to leave you again. Until then, I only pray that you're strong enough to look after Sam. One of us has to be._

...

THE END

Author's Notes: This story is based on an entry from John Winchester's Journal, dated November 21, 1983, and also references earlier events from the journal, such as Jacob and Ichi's deaths and John's business with the hunter simply known as H, the man who gave John the push he needed to become a hunter.

I so wanted to write little Jo Harvelle. But alas, I realized she wasn't born until 1985 and had to edit her out :( also, John's journal gives the location of The Roadhouse as being in Elgin, Nebraska.

Also, in case you were wondering, The Temptations song referenced was "I Wish it Would Rain."

I'm a John sympathizer. And I hope I did a good job of showing his internal conflict over becoming a hunter. If his journal shows anything, its that it didn't happen overnight!

I hope you enjoyed this story, and if you did, please review! I love reviews :)


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